Crownchasers

by Rebecca Coffindaffer

  Edgar clears his throat, relieved that his hands are out of view. He can’t seem to keep them from gripping the sides of his pants, twisting the fabric into bunches. “Father, I did not expect to hear from you.”

  William Voles raises a sharp eyebrow and snorts. “I find that entirely surprising. You disappeared from the crownchase. There’s been hardly a mention of you in any media source. You’re last in every poll. Where the hell are you, Edgar?”

  “I have plans set in motion—”

  “Oh, you have plans? You know, this isn’t just about logistical strategy, Edgar. It’s about perception too. It’s about public performance. You can’t just lean on that robot—”

  “Father, you know I don’t appreciate that word—”

  “And I don’t appreciate you screwing this up!”

  Silence over the comms channel. Edgar can feel blood rising in his cheeks, staining them red. His whole body is tense with adrenaline.

  William Voles straightens his collar. “The family didn’t want you as our crownchaser. I can’t blame them. But to choose anyone but you would’ve done irreparable damage to my reputation. So here we are.”

  The door to Edgar’s quarters opens, and NL7 appears in the frame. Waiting. Cool and detached.

  Edgar detaches too and says, very calmly, “I understand, Father. I will not fail.”

  “You’d better not. The Voles are the original empire-builders, but we’ve spent centuries playing second fiddle to idiots like the Faroshti. That time is over. It is time for our family to rise.”

  The screen goes dark. The comms channel goes dead. But Edgar stares at it for a long time until he calms down. Until his breath and his pulse slow so much that he can forget that he has lungs and skin and blood. Until he can forget he has a heart.

  THREE YEARS AGO . . .

  IMPERIAL THRONE ROOM, THE KINGSHIP, APEX

  IT LOOKS LIKE JUST A CHAIR.

  Sure, it’s got some extra decorations. Gilding and the seals of the prime families. There are some fancy tech upgrades inside it too.

  But outside of all that? It’s just a place to put your butt. Shouldn’t be worth killing over. You wouldn’t think.

  “Do you want to try it out?”

  I jerk around, but it’s just Uncle Atar, standing nearby with his hands folded behind him, wearing casual clothes instead of his fancy imperial robes. Which makes sense because there’s no one in here at this time of night except him and me. The long room echoes back the sound of our voices.

  “Why?” I ask him. “Plenty of other places to sit around here. Most of them a lot more comfortable.”

  A ghost of a smile crosses his face, and he shrugs as he moves over to the wall of windows. “It grows on you.”

  I follow on his heels. “Does it? Really? Because the way you talk about how you used to explore the galaxy, it doesn’t sound like this was a trade up.”

  He sighs, staring out at the absolute darkness of the star-riddled sky and the restless sea. “Bearing this name, Alyssa, brings with it a certain amount of responsibility. When the people needed me, I answered.”

  I snort, leaning against the glass. “I would’ve dodged the call.”

  “No . . . I don’t think you will.” That ghost smile of his is back. It’s completely infuriating. “I think you’ll be your mother’s daughter in the end.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll have to take your word on it because I never got the option of knowing her myself. Because of that.” I make a rude gesture at the imperial throne.

  Uncle Atar takes my hands and pulls me around to face him. “You can fixate on the past. Or you can create a better future. Which way is it going to be, Birdie?”

  I squirm under all the gentleness and sincerity coming off him. I know what he wants me to say—but I can’t say it. I can’t even make myself turn around and look at that stupid chair. I can feel it at my back and it feels like a black hole.

  “Honestly? Probably the first one.” I pull my hands out of his grasp. “I’m sorry, Uncle Atar. I know what you want me to be, but I can’t be it. And I’m never sitting on that throne.”

  I don’t look at his face as I walk away.

  Twenty-One

  Stardate: 0.05.20 in the Year 4031

  Location: Orbit drifting with zero gravity. Like you do.

  I’M AT LEAST READY FOR IT THIS TIME WHEN THE Vagabond goes dead.

  I don’t like it. But I’m mentally prepared.

  Coy uploaded her digital imprint first, so she shot off like a meteor a while ago, and I’ve been strapped to my jump seat staring out at the planetary curve of Tear against the stars for thirty-three minutes and fifty-five seconds.

  Not that I’m counting.

  My body feels really heavy for something that’s supposedly weightless right now.

  I probably should unpack all the junk cluttering my head and my chest as I stare and stare at the big blue shape of Tear on my viewscreen, but I’ll be honest: I’m not good at unpacking. It’s the whole reason why I travel light.

  Thirteen minutes and twenty-six seconds left.

  When I started this crownchase—no, when I got thrown into this crownchase—I just wanted to find a way out without totally betraying everything Uncle Atar had accomplished. I wanted to help Coy win because she is one of the closest things to family I have left and because she can do the damn job. And it wasn’t really a big deal, even, because it all felt like a game. The clues, the cameras, the highly edited media footage with leaderboards and splashy graphics and people posting odds—it all felt like some kind of new show concept for the reality vid feeds.

  Here, kids, take your shiny ships and run around the empire getting into hijinks! It’s cutthroat politics but it’s also wacky fun!

  Five minutes and forty-seven seconds left.

  Everything that happened on Tear just threw a weird hyper-focus on this whole mess. There are a thousand and one planets in the empire and trillions of people. Trillions. And whoever sits on that throne is going to affect all of their lives. On Tear. On Coltigh. On Helix and Chu’ra and Otar.

  Are we all just assholes for running around and not seeing this? Or maybe the other chasers did already and I’m just the asshole.

  The lights around me flicker and then surge to life.

  “Captain Farshot,” says Rose overhead, “all systems are online again.”

  Thank all the stars and gods. I turn in my jump seat, letting my eyes drift over every aspect of the bridge. My bridge. My home. I feel . . . listless. I don’t know what to do, and I’m not sure I want to do anything.

  “Hey, Captain.” Hell Monkey leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. “You got coordinates you want to head to?”

  I shake my head. “Not really. Your call. Just get us out of here, okay?”

  “Sure thing.” He catches my arm as I unbuckle my safety harness and start to stand. “You didn’t do anything bad back there. You did just what we said from the beginning we were gonna do.”

  I nod, trying to put on my poker face. I’m not sure I get it on right, though. “Yeah, I know. We’re . . . right on target.”

  He lets go as I step away, turning back to the conn while I wander toward the media feeds and scan them. Not even sure what I’m looking for, really. One of the tertiary media companies is running some story about my questionable motives, trying to spin it into a scandal, but no one else seems to be picking it up. The Daily Worlds definitely isn’t going to bite on that one, not with Cheery Coyenne at their helm. Trashing your daughter’s crownchase partner all over the frequency bands isn’t really a good look for anyone. Instead it looks like she’s had her staff cut together a fluffy piece called An Enduring Heart, about Nathalia and her touching friendship with me, the poor, orphaned Faroshti child.

  Ugh. Gross, Cheery.

  I hear the mediabot clinking across the bridge well before it appears in my peripheral vision.

  “Congratulations on completing your latest task, Captain Farshot.”

&nbs
p; I tuck my hands into my jumpsuit pockets, suppressing a snort. “Thanks, JR. It’s been a blast.”

  “Public reactions to your partnership with Nathalia Coyenne have been mixed, and some of the prime families have implied that it applies an unfair advantage to the crownchase. What would your response be to that?”

  I’m tempted to say something snarky. To dismiss the whole thing. The words are right there on the tip of my tongue.

  But instead, I swallow them down and say, “They’re entitled to think that. But the rules are clearly on our side. And I’m doing what I think is best for the people of the empire. I stand by my decision all the way.”

  “Have you considered—”

  Nope. One round of adult responses is enough. I put my hand over its nonexistent mouth. “I’m done for right now, okay? Catch me later.”

  When I head for my quarters and he doesn’t follow, it feels like progress. I’d rather not have a mediabot on my ship, but this isn’t bad, right? We can all get through this in one piece. . . .

  Safe in my own personal space, I hit the comms display on the wall and set it to record, stepping back a little so my face is fully in frame.

  “Hey, Cheery, it’s your favorite noncompetitive crownchaser. Seeing as how I’m giving the Coyenne family a big boost in this race-for-the-crown business, I was thinking you could do me a favor. I’ve got it on good authority that there are licensed explorers out there violating Society laws and stealing indigenous artifacts. I think this sounds like the kind of story the Daily Worlds should look into. See how far it goes. Maybe put some pressure on Society leadership to make a formal inquiry of it. Could be a big scoop for your feed too, so you’re welcome in advance.”

  I stop recording, bundle the file up, and send it across the bajillion kilometers of space between here and Apex. Then I flop on my bunk, grabbing my pillow out from behind my head and covering my face. If I know Cheery Coyenne—and I think I do—she’ll take the bait. Maybe it’ll even help.

  Or maybe it’s just a bandage.

  My stomach churns with dozens of sour emotions, and I press the pillow down harder. I’d scream into it, but I’m worried I’ll just throw up.

  There’s a knock on the door, and then it slides open. I hear Hell Monkey’s voice through the foam muffling my whole head.

  “This looks like things are going well.”

  “Fabulous.” I pull the pillow away from my face and wiggle ungracefully into a seated position. Hell Monkey’s leaning over the threshold, his hands braced against the door frame. When does he have time to build delts like that? “Look, I know I need to upload the clue and start working and stuff, but I just need a minute.”

  His response is a grimace. Like an “ooh, bad news, boss” grimace. Ugh.

  “What is it? What’s happening?”

  He steps all the way inside and closes the door behind him. “Incoming communication from Coy. Figured you’d want to know.” He goes over to the display, presses a few buttons to open a secure channel, and the next thing I know my entire room—my entire skull—is filled with this high-pitched ringing sound. Hell Monkey yanks the hood of his jumpsuit up and slams his hands against the sides of his head. I grab my damn pillow and wrap it around the back of my skull to muffle both ears.

  Coy’s irritated face appears on the display screen, and I glare at her and yell, “WHAT THE HELL, COYENNE?”

  She cocks her head at me. “Welcome to the party, Farshot. This clue officially sucks.”

  Twenty-Two

  Stardate: 0.0—I honestly have no idea what my own freaking name is right now because this sound is so loud

  “CAN YOU TURN IT OFF?!”

  My face is like three inches from the display and I’m yelling over the comms like that’s going to make any of this racket any better. But I’ve got pieces of foam stuffed in my ears to try to make it a little more bearable, so now all of us are reduced to communicating like we’re angry as hell.

  Which . . . maybe we are a little. Try functioning with a spine-shattering ringing tone filling your entire ship. See how calm and patient you are.

  “IF I COULD TURN IT OFF, DON’T YOU THINK I WOULD’VE BY NOW?”

  “IT’S JUST BEEN DOING THIS SINCE YOU UPLOADED THE IMPRINT?”

  “YES. THE GUN’S AI CAN’T MUTE IT. DRINN’S WORKING ON AN OVERRIDE, BUT SO FAR, NO GO.”

  “What the hell even is it?” Hell Monkey crouches against the wall, right by my feet, his hood still up and plugs in his ears. “What kind of clue is this supposed to be?”

  I shake my head. I can’t imagine any good reason for this except to send every crownchaser shooting ourselves into the nearest sun. Which . . . might be a reason.

  “IT’S NOT MUSIC,” Coy yells.

  I see Hell Monkey mouth, “Yeah, no shit,” at the exact same time I holler, “YEAH, NO SHIT!” and his mouth curls upward a bit under the shadow of his hood.

  “I’M JUST SAYING. OUR AI HAS BEEN RUNNING IT THROUGH THE QUADRANT DATABASE OF KNOWN MUSICAL STYLES AND THERE ARE NO MATCHES.”

  I start to open my mouth to respond when Hell Monkey reaches up an arm and smacks a button on the display. The screen goes dark. The sound cuts out. I swear I’ve never been so jazzed to hear the emptiness of silence before. The relief coats my whole body. But . . .

  “She needs our help, H.M.,” I say as I peel the foam out of my ears. “That was the deal. Combine our resources. Stay a step ahead.”

  He rolls onto his feet, pulling the hood off his shaved head. “We can’t help her if we’re being mentally flattened, same as her. You wanna help? Figure out the source of that noise.” He glances down at my right hand—the one with the metallic imprint still on it from the beacon on Tear. I never did upload it into the Vagabond. His eyes meet mine, and he shakes his head. “Don’t go anywhere near our systems until we think we have a solution to this thing.”

  “No arguments here.” I sink down onto my bunk, scrubbing at my face. “This universe is crammed full of noises. How are we supposed to isolate one matching note in all of that chaos?”

  Rose’s cool voice breaks in. “Incoming message from Nathalia Coyenne on secure channel, Captain Farshot.”

  “Ignore it.” Hell Monkey paces the room. It’s, like, three strides long for him, but whatever makes him feel better. “Focus here. If we can work it out, we can help Coy get clear.”

  “Okay . . .” My ears are still ringing a little. Like phantom pain but for my eardrums. “It’s not music, but a lot of things make music besides people. Maybe it’s from the song of a bird or animal of some kind. Rose, send a secured message to the Gilded Gun: Check sound against database of recorded bird, animal, and insect noises.”

  Rose makes a little beep-beep noise of assent.

  Hell Monkey drops into a crouch again, right in front of where I’m sitting. He’s kind of staring at me, but also kind of staring through me as he processes something. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him do this in order to figure out a problem.

  I wait. And wait. And wait some more.

  I reach out and boop him on the nose. “Hey, buddy, are you coming back anytime soon? It’s borderline awkward.”

  He blinks at me. “I used to collect a lot of rocks when I was a kid.”

  I gape at him a little. This is the first time in the two years I’ve known him that I’ve heard him mention his childhood. At all. In the slightest. For all I knew, he’d just popped out of a wall panel on the station where we met, fully grown and programmed to snark.

  Before I can recover, he plows ahead. “I had a pretty big collection, and most of them were just, like, rocks I could get pretty much anywhere on my planet. But I managed to find some special ones too—crystals that I got off folks I met, usually. They weren’t really worth shit, but I thought they were so cool and I used to read all about them.”

  Part of my brain has already jumped way off track and is just dying to spill out a whole bunch of questions about Hell Monkey’s past—what was the planet, where wer
e you born, what about your family. Like this one mention of his about being a kid is a crack in an airlock and if I don’t force my way in before it seals, I’ll never get through again.

  But I don’t. I stay on target. I say, “Okay, but what do crystals have to do with The Worst Noise in a Thousand Worlds?”

  “A lot of cultures in the empire believe that the structure and properties of crystals give off certain energies, that they actually resonate with frequencies outside our ability to hear them.”

  I sit back, drumming my fingers along my thighs. “You’re saying you think this could be from something inorganic. That maybe there’s not even an audio record of it in the databases.”

  Hell Monkey nods, and I feel this bright little bubble expand in my chest. The excitement of exploration. Of discovery.

  “Rose,” I say, getting to my feet, “I’m about to input a really terrible audio file into the Vagabond database, and I need you to immediately try to identify it by frequency and amplitude and see if there’s anything else in our quadrant, like a planet or an asteroid cluster or something, that is giving off the same frequency. Got it?”

  “Understood, Captain Farshot. The estimated calculation time for the process you’re requesting is two hours and forty-nine minutes.”

  Hell Monkey looks at me, sighs, and jams his earplugs back in. I do the same thing, and then I take a very deep breath—brace yourself, Farshot—and place the palm of my hand against the control panel.

  Twenty-Three

  Stardate: 0.05.21 in the Year 4031

  Location: A hyperlight lane and all is quiet, thank the stars

  IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT, THE AMOUNT OF CALCULATING and scanning and assessing Rose did in under three hours is pretty amazing.

  But that two hours and forty-nine minutes of listening to that screeching tone without it once missing a beat also felt like two hundred and forty-nine years, so. There’s that.